Secrets

by Kristen Heitzmann

  We laugh. We sing. We dance between the vines.

  It is the best time there is, when the land

  gives back what we have poured out.

  When Lance arrived the next morning, he let himself in with the key to the kitchen door that Rese had given him. He saw no sign of her, but the cadence of the morning news came through the wall from her suite. Since he didn’t want to get caught where she might expect him to cook, he logged his starting time on the pad in the kitchen and went upstairs. Payment was secondary motivation. Money had never been enough to keep him somewhere, and it meant even less this time. But since cleaning the attic was the only thing he was being paid for at the moment, he’d keep track of the time.

  The air was damp and chilly under the eaves this morning, and he realized he’d left the small window open all night. He bent and lifted a portable movie screen that must have blown over, then climbed across the piles and closed the window. He turned back and surveyed the situation with an almost tangible anticipation.

  There might be nothing else in the attic remotely connected to him, but in his dreams he’d crept through the debris, finding pieces of the story buried in corners. And Nonna Antonia had watched over him as he fit them together like a broken mirror, then peered inside. It wasn’t only his reflection in the glass, but Nonna’s and others with her.

  With that in mind, he set about removing rolls of linoleum and old paint cans. It was amazing the place hadn’t combusted, and after an hour or so, reality was dispelling his dream. As Rese said, the chances of finding something of value up there was less than likely.

  Too soon she came up, her assertive posture hammering home the truth of the situation. He was a minion. “Sounds like war up here.” She looked around as though expecting something besides him, an army he might have smuggled in?

  “The hammock.” He motioned toward an old steel frame with a crispy canvas sling he had dragged into the cleared section of the floor. The thing weighed a ton and had rubber grips on the bottom that slid like a washboard when he pulled. “Want it?” His mouth twitched with laughter, but she had to look twice before she caught the joke, then dismissed it with a shrug.

  “With a new sling, it wouldn’t be bad.”

  Given her penchant for resurrecting old things, he shouldn’t be surprised. But he gave it a dubious inspection.

  She tipped her head. “We could spray-paint it.”

  Had she actually said we? “Where do you want it?”

  “Out back for now. I’ll help.” She grabbed one side of the frame and lifted, realized its mass and adjusted her grip. “Ready?”

  He caught the other side and followed.

  “Watch the stairs, here. They’re steep.”

  “Thank you.” He couldn’t help grinning behind her back. He’d safely navigated those stairs quite a few times now. But if she felt better instructing him, more power to her.

  She tipped the hammock sideways to pass through the door, and he noted the flex and shape of her in T-shirt and painter’s pants. A loose T-shirt no more hid a shapely form than an unshapely one, though he guessed she meant it to.

  Why she didn’t make more of what she had he couldn’t guess, but it was just as well, considering he had a job to do. He could only attribute his errant thoughts to that seriously misplaced sense of connection. They lodged the hammock near the garden shed. “Until I decide what to do with it,” she said.

  Ah. So the work was “we” but the decisions were “I.” This girl wanted control.

  “Fine.” He went back up. So far there had been nothing resembling records or personal papers of any sort in the attic. He would probably do all the work for nothing. But he hauled out another stack of newspapers, these from the late sixties, and left them in the driveway with the others.

  There was a button jar and a box of handkerchiefs that a woman might find interesting. He put them in the “things for Rese” spot and removed a web-infested pile of rags to find a mouse nest complete with scurrying creatures that escaped into the eaves. They’d have to put out traps.

  Lance hauled the rags down to the driveway and informed her. Did he imagine her shudder? She walked like a man, worked like a man, acted like a man, but was that a girlish gesture?

  He said, “We’ll need traps.”

  “Get whatever you need and give me the receipts.”

  “You want the kind where they stick inside and wiggle around until they die, or the ones that snap their necks?”

  She shot him a dark look. “Did you need to ask that?”

  “You like to make the decisions.”

  “I gave you charge of the wildlife.”

  Like God with Adam.

  She drew herself up. “Use the ones that do it quick. I don’t want them to suffer.”

  “Okay. I found a couple things you might like. You wanna see?”

  She was studiously indifferent. “Bring them down later.”

  He hadn’t imagined it. She didn’t want to go near the mice. Huh. He wouldn’t have guessed her a chair climber. Anything but. Though he could imagine what she’d say if he voiced it aloud. He fought a smile, then laughed silently. She was the sort of woman who just begged teasing—not that he’d ever dream of doing it.

  Rese took a few minutes to regain her composure, wishing she had not pictured what he described so clearly, and definitely glad Lance had tackled the attic. She didn’t have to feel guilty. It was a simple division of labor.

  She stepped out into another gray morning that did not mean rain. In the valley, nearly every morning began with a dull sky that yielded later to thirsty sunshine that drank up the morning moisture and returned warmth. It was why the grapes thrived, a giving and taking, a rhythm she sensed even if she had no patience for it. At this hour, the dew had dissipated, but the sun had not yet broken through, and it was not as dry as she’d have liked.

  But she had wasted time yesterday and was getting a late start today. Fewer distractions would be a good thing. Crossing to the garden shed, she gauged the moisture still dampening the surfaces. It would be better if it was dry, but she’d given it as long as she could. She hauled the ladder out and stretched it to the roof, then went back to the shed for the brush.

  This was one job she did not relish, but with the chimney coughing soot at every bump, she had to sweep it before the gas conversion could be done. She climbed up with the long-handled brush and extenders, then pulled herself onto the roof. It was high and steep, and the tiles were slick as she’d expected.

  She walked carefully, though she’d been traversing roofs and scaffolding as long as she could remember. There was no excuse for carelessness no matter what your experience. The tiles had withstood the ravages of time better than she would have expected, and that had been a major selling point for this particular property.

  From the corner of her eye she saw Lance hauling a load out to the driveway, but she kept her attention on the slippery surface. She reached the chimney and circled it with the strap attached to her waist belt, then prepared to lower the brush. Strident screeches and flapping wings erupted at her face. She jerked backward, fending off the birds with the brush. In spite of the strap and belt, her foot slipped and one knee hit the edge of a tile. She bit back her cry, but a moment later Lance climbed the roof to her.

  “Are you all right?”

  She gritted her teeth and rubbed the knee. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  He noted the turkey buzzards still circling. “Looked like a scene from The Birds.” The corners of his mouth quirked. “They must be roosting in there.” He steadied himself by the strap attached to her belt.

  Rese pulled herself up. “They’ll have to roost elsewhere. I need to clean the chimney so the gas conversion pipes can go through.”

  “Let the installers deal with it.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m the installer.” She positioned the brush again.

  “You’re doing the conversion?”

  “I don’t trust anyone else with gas.” Lance g
ave her a curious look, but she didn’t analyze her quirks or explain them. She thrust the brush into the chimney and sent him a sideways glance. “I don’t need help.”

  He looked up. “Sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.” Rese jammed the brush down and attached another segment to the handle. Cranky from lack of sleep, her knee throbbing, she smarted worse from his seeing her panic. The birds’ initial aggression had been startled fear, and she should have realized that and backed away. Instead she’d shown fear and weakness. He made no further comment, though, as he stood watch.

  Ash-scented dust arose as she scrubbed a century’s crud from the walls.

  It would have been worse dry, so there was some benefit to the damp, even if it had made her look stupid. She swiped her arm over her eyes and nose. Lance kept his gaze on the sky, but the birds circled lazily, too stupid to realize the destruction to their domicile.

  She added the last extender and scrubbed the lowest portion. Maybe not a professional job, but adequate for her purposes. She drew the brush out, detached the extenders and said, “That’s it. You can go down now.”

  He slid his gaze from the sky to the ground. “Ever notice how up is easier?”

  She detached her strap and slid it from his hand. “Don’t think about it. Just go.” She read the hesitation in his face and noticed today he wore a small gold hoop in his ear. A man who changed his earrings. “Don’t tell me you’re acrophobic.”

  “Hadn’t really thought about it before.” He clung with one hand to the chimney.

  She slacked a hip. “Oh, that’s great. You come to the rescue, and now I have to carry you down?”

  He jutted his chin. “Did I say that?”

  “I don’t see you going.”

  “I’m going.” He leaned a little.

  “Impressive.” She arched her eyebrows.

  Mumbling, he let go of the chimney and started down the roof—as she’d expected. Goad a man’s pride and he’s capable of anything. He reached the ladder and pulled himself over the edge without looking up.

  She snatched up the brush and started for the ladder herself, then swung over the side too confidently. The brush caught the gutter, and she gouged her side on the edge of the ladder. Clenching her teeth, she hung immobile until the pain lessened, then slowly started down. Stupid birds. Stupid man. Stupid … Rese. She’d been careless.

  The flash of a blood-spattered wall seized her mind. She pressed her eyes shut and paused her descent, fighting the images until the pain radiating from her side penetrated her mental paralysis. The injury couldn’t be that bad, even though the safety plastic had long since broken off the aluminum edge that gouged her. It just hurt. She reached the ground and tossed the brush and attachments, then turned to find Lance still there. She had expected him to huff off and be long gone, but he must have seen it all.

  “How bad is it?”

  “Not.” She pressed her hand to her side.

  With a firm motion, he pulled her hand away and lifted the edge of her shirt. The soft flesh above her hip was fairly mangled, blood filling the ridges. The air made it sting even worse.

  “First aid kit?”

  She sighed. “In my tool box. I’ll take care of it.” She tugged her shirt out of his hand. “It’s no big deal.” Except the embarrassment. Accidents happened when you lost your focus. If he hadn’t come up on the roof, she wouldn’t have lost it, but she wasn’t passing the blame.

  She was answerable to herself and took full responsibility. She had learned early on to be neither a hindrance nor a liability. But between her side and her aching knee, she hadn’t done too well with this one.

  Inside the garden shed, she yanked open the lid of the first aid kit, took out three medicated bandages and attached them to her side, stinging more with indignation than pain. Next time he lifted her shirt, she’d take his head off with a shovel.

  Oh, heavens, they were amusing. She could almost imagine the Lord had provided them for her entertainment. She had worked the window open an inch or so to let in the spring air and seen the two of them on the roof like scarecrows, arms flailing as the buzzards flapped about them.

  They were no longer in sight, but she stood at the window drawing the inch of fresh air in with small, pathetic breaths. She still imagined herself a robust, mite-sized dynamo, in spite of the cane, the aches, the time it took to do any small thing. Young at heart was a cliché, and Lord knew, her heart was as old as the rest of her. Youth, however, was a matter of perspective.

  It might truly be wasted on the young, as the saying went, who had too little experience to see clearly. Take the angst-ridden pair next door. Without perspective, it was easy to squabble over little things. All that energy, and so little temperance. Evvy chuckled. That was what made them so much fun.

  A small brown wren landed on the side of the roof beneath her. It hopped about in troubled bursts, finding a seed or a bit of fluff for a nest. She hadn’t filled her feeder in over a month. No wonder the bird tipped its head so scornfully her way.

  “Have you not heard? ‘Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them.’ You’ll have to look to Him for now, as I do … as I do.”

  Evvy turned from the window and surveyed her room. It looked a little weary these days. Too long since it had received a thorough cleaning. Rainbow dust motes fluttered in the sunbeams breaking through the morning clouds, but the surfaces showed little settled there. That much she could do and did.

  With her hand gripping the footboard, she made the sliding motion that was her gait now that arthritis had settled in her knees, then let go and reached for her dresser. Over the years she had emptied the place of things people found valuable, leaving her room and most of the house quite Spartan. When she and her mother had moved in next to Ralph, things were still affordable. She wouldn’t be living in the house now if she hadn’t inherited it. But the antiques still housed there would keep her solvent until the end. More than one dated back almost to the Bear Revolution when California declared itself its own country. Her mother had collected; she dispensed.

  There were only a few things atop the rectangular doily on her dresser. No jewelry box, just an eyeglass case, hairbrush and comb, and two silverframed photographs. She gazed at them fondly, her beaus. One in a soldier’s uniform at the train station, the other in his garden, the one that grew just over the hedge from her own. She lifted the photograph of the soldier, studied the strong lines of his young face. Duty written there. She nodded and set him down.

  The other face showed humor and a joie de vivre in the many lines around his eyes and mouth. Oh, he could charm a rat to dance. But she hadn’t given him the advantage. They could battle it out when they all three gathered in heaven. She chuckled and started the trek to her bathroom.

  Lance stalked to the carriage house. Yes, Rese had looked as though she needed help. But next time, unless she was frothing at the mouth, he would not repeat that mistake. In fact, frothing might not be enough. Talk about an attitude. He should have let the buzzards have her.

  He grabbed the shovel he had left leaning in the corner, and the blisters on his palms smarted. He hadn’t done this sort of work lately. But if Rese could handle her end, he could handle his. Acrophobic? Carry me down? A bee flew in and buzzed his head, and he batted it into the wall where it droned dizzily along until it took flight through the open roof.

  Lance thrust the shovel into the sandy ground. Gulls and pigeons winged overhead, and the buzzards still circled. Restoring the carriage house was on his own time, thanks to his impulsive offer. He could have gone back to the attic, but right now he needed to forget he worked for Rese Barrett. That was a sham anyway, a means to an end.

  He started digging where he’d left off. He had to clear the vegetation and make a smooth bed for the cement slab. But as he thrust, the shovel scraped. He cleared the sand and found a paving stone. Huh?

  He cleared some more. Not just one stone
, but several. He moved to another area, and another. A floor—one that great-great-grandfather Quillan might have laid himself, with stones cut from the nearby quarry.

  Lance bent and stroked the stones, feeling the labor that had laid them, the care and pride that put such a floor in a carriage house. He pressed his palm there, eyes closed, purpose and connection surging once again. Lord. In spite of Rese and her attitude, in spite of his own shortcomings, there was something here that mattered, and it was all part of a plan. He carefully cleared stone after stone, cut so precisely and set so tightly he might not need grout at all. He’d rather keep it in its original condition.

  It was a gift unsought. The property offering itself, saving him time and effort by the work of hands that came before. An inheritance. Lance swallowed the swelling in his throat, humbled and grateful. He was making too much of a simple thing, but he couldn’t help it. Life was fragile, and the shadows left behind touched those who came after.

  Hooves and feet had trodden this floor, but Lance knelt on it now and blessed those feet, those hands that laid the stones to make his floor. He had no right to think of it as his, but Conchessa had told him to trust the urgings within and sense his way. He pressed his forehead to the stone wall. Show me.

  After several heartbeats, he opened his eyes. Enough dreaming. Back to work. He pulled himself up by the shovel. Strange so much sand had accumulated. He almost suspected it had been intentional, though even if the place had been used as a garage or stable or animal pen later on, it would have been better to keep the stone floor.

  He continued to clear it, filling another wheelbarrow. He emptied it into the shallow gully behind the structure, then took up the shovel again. He didn’t mind the work now. It was a labor of love. Do it simply; do it well. And appreciate what came of it because nothing was sure. Nothing in this life.

  He cleared the rest of the floor in a few wheelbarrow loads, then set about sweeping. The large flat stones were well laid, level and tightly fitted, and he cleaned them off now with due care. Whisking the broom, he glimpsed something metallic wedged into the corner.